


The Start of Life

by cassyl



Series: Lazarus [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Glove porn, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Post Reichenbach, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Zombies?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:04:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassyl/pseuds/cassyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As it turns out, actually dying changes his plans very little.  Still, his new circumstances are not without complications.  "Pushing Daisies" fusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Start of Life

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic.tumblr.com/post/38131708450/devinleighbee-fanfics-that-need-to-be-written) over on [fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic](http://fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic.tumblr.com/). If anyone else has tried their hand at this, I would love to read it.

As it turns out, actually dying on his fall from the roof of Barts changes his plans very little. He is still, in the public eye, deceased. He is still in pursuit of Moriarty’s network. Only now, John is with him. Only now, they have arguments about terminology.

“Dead” and its derivatives, namely “undead,” don’t seem to apply, as he’s not, technically speaking, a corpse. He was, briefly, but not anymore. They both agree that “zombie” has too negative a connotation, and anyway belongs to a specific cultural tradition that is not their own. Personally, Sherlock favors “revivified,” because it most accurately describes his condition: he was dead and John’s touch restored him to life. John, who finds most of the alternatives too clinical for his tastes, prefers “alive again.” 

All in all, Sherlock considers his situation now greatly improved. He was prepared to do this alone, and perhaps it’s weakness, but he’s glad he doesn’t have to.

Still, his new circumstances are not without complications. 

He and John are not on the best terms these days. He expected John’s anger, his recrimination. He just didn’t think he’d be here to see it. He’d hoped to keep John’s grief out of sight, out of mind, but any chance of that went out the window (so to speak) when he cracked his skull open by accident. (He’s still bitter over that miscalculation, will never quite be able to live it down.) It was easier to make plans when he didn’t have to factor in for sentiment.

John tries not to show that he is angry, but Sherlock’s betrayal colors every argument they have. There are times when he can see it simmering behind John’s expression, when he cuts himself off just short of a cross word, an imprecation. There are times, too, when John turns his back on him entirely, inflicting silence like he learned it from a pro (he did). But all this Sherlock can bear. It’s no less than he deserves. 

At least they are together.

More pressing is the issue of physical contact. There are moments when he reaches out – as they’re running, trying to get John to change directions, or receiving from him a microscope slide or a pen or a cup of tea – and they almost touch. He can’t help doubting, just a little, everything John’s told him, finds himself thinking, _Really, what harm can it do_ , but John believes, even if Sherlock doesn’t, and he won’t let it happen. 

John takes to wearing gloves, just to be safe: soft, supple, brown leather driving gloves that conform perfectly to the contours of his hands.

Sometimes now Sherlock dreams about taking those gloved fingers into his mouth, about sucking on them, swallowing them down. He dreams about those fingers pushing into him and shaking him apart. Sometimes he wakes writhing for want of that touch.

It’s strange, to say the least. Before—before he fell, before he died, before John brought him back to life—he never wanted in that way. But now . . . Now, his body is awake with sensation, with desire. Every inch of his skin seems to be perfectly attuned to John’s presence. He’s seen the hairs on his arms stand up and sway in the direction of the door when John enters a room.

He can only assume it’s some strange side effect of John’s gift. John’s hands remade him; it’s only natural that his body would recognize John as a part of himself, as the start of life. There’s no one else with whom to compare notes (John’s told him that the young soldier he saved, the first and only other human being he’s ever brought back, was killed by an IED a few weeks later), and he doesn’t ask. To do so seems too personal, too accusatory, _Why do I want you?_ a question too easily misconstrued. 

If John notices, he doesn’t say.

Sherlock occupies himself by trying to recall the moment John brought him back to life. It happened out on the pavement in front of Barts. John’s told him about it, about being knocked over by the cyclist, the ringing in his ears, the way everything seemed to slow down. John’s told him about taking his pulse, how the act of giving Sherlock life came almost unbidden. _I didn’t even think about it_ , he said. _It just opened up, this thing moving between us—life, from me into you._

He doesn’t remember. It was the last time John’s bare skin will ever come into contact with his own (except, perhaps, in the moment before he dies again). He tries to conjure the sensation of John’s warm fingertips pressed against his wrist and fails. Technically he was dead at the time, so there’s no way he could remember, but he’d like to.


End file.
